Let's All Discover
by Elise Davidson
Summary: McShep. Discovery Table challenge, 24 prompts. Pre-slash. All one-shots of life in Atlantis. Some are set post series and all chapters are variously rated.
1. Let's Go Somewhere New

Let's All Go…Somewhere New

They stepped through the gate with restrained confidence, the kind provided that the MALP had indicated a viable atmosphere, along with something habitable so far as living conditions were concerned.

The excited anticipation quickly gave way to panic and a sort of frenetic confusion over whether they would survive the next 12 hours or not. Throughout the resulting days, chaos handed itself down to organization in order to conserve resources, and beget itself again to panic as the Wraith awoke.

Sheppard sat in the mess, pouring water into the pouch of a beef stew MRE that reminded him too much of the academy and basic training. He focused on the watered down taste because it was easier than knowing what kind of threat they had brought back to this galaxy.

McKay sat down in front of him, dropping his own MRE at the table. Exhaustion was a heavy tension, and neither man seemed able to vocalize the sheer realism of their situation—or they didn't care to; the distinction was blurry and grey.

Instead, McKay ripped his MRE open and stared at Sheppard heavily enough that the Major looked up, his green eyes weighted down and his posture tight and prepared to strike. " _What_ , McKay?" Sheppard finally snapped.

McKay shrugged, seemingly oblivious to not only the quality of food, but whatever internal battle that was going on inside of Sheppard. "Just a thought, really." He started picking through the freeze-dried packets of food in a near absent fashion.

Sheppard rolled his eyes, slowly stirring water and something a third-world country would be grateful to call beef stew. "It's never "just" a thought, McKay; spit it the fuck out."

There was a long silence, as if McKay was actually taking the time to measure the weight of his words, the impact they might have, and the causality of their effects.

Sheppard was almost done with his meal when McKay looked up, his eyes bright and voice excited. It was emotion, something Sheppard hadn't seen in a while. It had been nothing but grief, tension, and survival—Sheppard could _do_ that.

But the open curiosity and desire for knowledge and adventure was clear on McKay's face when the scientist spoke again, and it made Sheppard's belly clench in an unfamiliar way.

The words, when McKay spoke again, were weighted and fired as carefully as a sniper rifle.

"We went somewhere _new_ ," McKay says, his eyes manic with anxiety, his mouth (for once) not full of food, his teeth gliding around the words and his lips curling in anticipation.

Sheppard nodded laconically, unable to dismiss the sharp feel of expectation and the unknown from his frame. "Yeah," he said, unable to deny and shove away what he had felt like to put Sumner down like a diseased animal, "We did, didn't we, buddy?" He wasn't able to hide the way his fingers twisted around his silverware before he could shove them into his pockets.

McKay followed his movements a little, still distracted with equations and statistics about how they could possibly survive here. He gave Sheppard a toothy, too-knowing smile. "Yeah, we did."

The impact would have been no less to Sheppard than if someone had fired a non-lethal, bean bag shot to his chest, and he could say nothing as McKay—no, _Rodney_ —spoke of everything they could find in _their_ city.

Sheppard gave him the MRE-version of chocolate pudding, just so Rodney would keep talking.

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	2. Crack the Code

02\. Crack the Code

Elizabeth had never denied her ability to sniff out moral ambiguity, ethics, and other such things that seem to be unknown or simply ignored throughout the Pegasus galaxy. Even with the nanites feeding her brain the necessary information, she was still able to splice the relevant from feelings that are still being processed in the few moments she had once she was in the freezing dark of space.

She hadn't cracked their code, per se; that had been all Rodney.

What she was able to crack was the Replicators' unintentionally programmed need to ascend.

She didn't feel bad, seeing their frozen, horrified faces as they realized what had happened, their stiff unbending bodies floating in space beside of her as they lost the _one_ ability the ancients had programmed them to unerringly do— _replicate_.

The ethical part of her screamed, a last dying protest of entropic justifications, finally fading to a whimper.

The frozen faces are there, but she didn't feel any regret, as if a replicator could _feel_ anything really. Instead, Elizabeth, the part of her that was still there, regretted not giving Atlantis what they needed. She drifted instead, with the only family she had left—a family of stiff, betrayed screams. In that cold vacuum, she decided that she had done the right thing.

As she watched the stars drift past, the nanites still attempting to fix or compensate for the lowering energy levels, she only really rued the fact that she didn't tell Atlantis how to crack the code.

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	3. Bend the Rules

03\. Bend the Rules

When the IOA came to Atlantis, John damn near felt the city shut down. It felt like defense, like someone crawling back into themselves, just to avoid the passive-aggressive tactics that the IOA tended to employ.

John crossed his arms, his frame belying the fact that he could feel the tension radiating through his seemingly casual stance. He knew better than to charge in, defending all the blame that the IOA wanted to lay at Carter's feet.

In the end, Woolsey still took over.

In the end, Woolsey realized that the Pegasus galaxy was adept at mind tricks, and came to realize the only rule that mattered—

Sometimes, all the rules had to bend.

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	4. Do What Can't Be Done

04\. Do What Can't Be Done

When he woke, his first thought was that he didn't _need_ this sort of facility to heal. The next thought was _home_ —among the dark and entrenched recesses of a place he couldn't remember enough to describe.

Only one word dared to quake from his lips, and it was only because he saw a needle coming towards his skin.

" _Sheppard_!" he hisses, but it did little good.

"Todd, it's okay," he heard, and _no_ , it's _not_ okay.

He screamed, feeling stripped and open, far more exposed than he would normally allow. His breathing bottomed out and he glared to the viewing room even as his vision grew blurry with unfamiliar medication.

" _Sheppard_!" he howled once more, but due to the alien sedatives, it came out as a whimper that made his eyes water. He was helpless, and could only see Sheppard in the elevated room as he attempted to continue whining his protest.

Sheppard smirked, and he felt ice raining down upon him. "Todd, it's okay, you're gonna be fine."

The sedatives must be working, because all he could feel was himself, his hunger, his _being_ slipping away.

Finally, in the harsh medical lighting, he realized that he can only ever be Todd. His "self" before that no longer mattered.

When he finally woke again, there are two things he wondered about—the first was why there was no scar on his hand.

The other was _why_ he hated Col Sheppard so much.

No one can tell him the truth. No one can tell him _why_ he felt like he didn't belong. No one can tell him why his hand _ached_ , like there was something he should do, but couldn't remember how. He felt like slamming a hand to someone's chest, but he couldn't remember _why_ , only that he _should_ , that he _needed_ to—

The setting is unfamiliar and he knew he didn't _choose_ —something.

But then Sheppard came in, calling him Todd, and he felt uneasy. He felt…

He felt like Sheppard saw him as an experiment that couldn't be done.

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	5. Let's All Learn How to Fly

05\. Let's All Learn How to Fly

"What could it hurt, McKay?" asked John lazily. Behind that easy tone, there was a tinge of rebellious excitement. "Carson may not be here and what if Lorne is off-world? Or incapacitated?"

Rodney glared from the back of the control chair, his features sharp and irritated in the glare from his laptop. "Then we're boned; anything else? I _do_ have work to do, you know. I'm not down on my knees for my health."

John still seemed lightly amused, peeking behind the chair. "It's diagnostics; it's not like we're trying to raise the city all over again."

Rodney snorted and opted to ignore John instead. "Maybe later," he mumbled absently a few moments into John's unwavering stare. He continued to work, the heaviness of the colonel's gaze making it harder to analyze the intricate Ancient programming lines of diagnostic code.

Rodney tapped the keyboard, studiously ignoring the penetrating (almost pleading) look until he reluctantly realized that John was _not_ going to let this go. He finished the base line he had been on and tipped his face up to fully focus on John's easy-going but solid eyes.

" _What_?" Rodney snapped.

John grinned broadly, almost like triumph, and offered a hand to Rodney to help the scientist peel himself off the floor. "You know I'm right."

Rodney looked at the chair with a touch of wariness on his face. "About what?" He glanced and turned towards John, back facing the chair.

John seemed to analyze the hesitance, weigh it, and then dismiss it deliberately before he suddenly shoved Rodney with open palms to the chest.

Rodney fell back into the control chair, stuttering and cursing. He abruptly stopped babbling when John placed both palms over Rodney's twitching fingers and leaned into the space between them.

" _What_ , exactly, do you want me to do?" Rodney asked, hating that his voice suddenly cracks. "Clearance much?" he emphasizes, but his tone is not better and about three-quarters of an octave higher than normal.

But John only smirked at him, narrow restless fingers jumping over Rodney's hands. There was a flash of something in the tension of John's fingers, something Rodney couldn't name but twisted at deep in his gut.

"I have the clearance," John finally said, wetting his chapped lips in an uncertain way that was both familiar and endearing to Rodney. "They don't have to know _who's_ flying, now do they?"

Rodney began to splutter words and predictions, nervous sounds that John ignored over the sharp, jittering sound of his own heart.

So John tightened his fingers over Rodney's, still so obviously in his space, and gave a half grin. "Only one question I really have, Rodney."

Rodney jerks back into the chair, activating it almost on accident in a wash of blue. He swallowed hard as John leaned forward with the auto-recline of the motion.

"If the question is about your apparent loss of sanity, I have an answer," Rodney said sarcastically, "And the prognosis isn't good."

John shook his head, just enough for Rodney to catch the scent of the Athosian cleaning products they both still used, as well as the smell of air, wind, and unbridled anticipation.

"Well?" Rodney demanded impatiently, hands suddenly going still when John's fingers gripped his own.

John smiled openly. "Let's learn how to _fly_."

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	6. Meet Up with Bigfoot

06\. Meet Up With Bigfoot

SGA-1 appeared to be deep in debate when Carter approached the table in the mess. The silence was sharp and immediate when they make eye contact.

"Mind if I join?" Carter asked casually, ignoring the sudden lack of spirited talk.

Rodney made a choked noise while John's reply of "sure" sounded a bit high. Ronon nodded in silence, apparently more intent on food than anything else.

Teyla smiled cheerfully and pushed her tray aside to make room. "You are most welcome to join us, Colonel Carter. Please, sit."

Carter did, but she still tensed, mostly in reaction to the close-lipped faces of John, Rodney, and Ronon. "Did I interrupt something?"

"No, of course not," Teyla responded neutrally as Ronon and Rodney resumed eating. John stared quietly at his food, looking for all the world like he would rather be getting dressed down than hearing whatever Teyla was about to say. "We were debating the merit of larger foot size in a warrior."

Ronon shoved a piece of bread into his mouth.

Rodney gagged on his not-quite-meatloaf.

John dropped his fork with a loud clatter.

Carter tilted her head, immediately getting _why_ the men looked (well, maybe Ronon was just hungry more than embarrassed) uncomfortable. She rested her hand around her glass of iced tea. "How's that?" she asked idly.

Teyla started putting her tray together to leave. "We are undecided if it matters or not when it comes to…physical prowess."

Carter chewed her close-to-lettuce thoughtfully. She considered as Ronon ignored her, Sheppard glared steadfastly at his tray, and Rodney twitched nervously.

"Size means a lot of things," Carter finally said, "It doesn't necessarily mean you know the whole advantage of the warrior in question."

Teyla gave an appreciative sound of affirmation. "Precisely my point; I believe Colonel Carter is correct."

It was John who choked this time, while Rodney frenetically announced that he was done and shot off as if there were a ZPM waiting for him at the cleaning station. Ronon simply snorted his agreement with an almost unconscious nod in Carter's direction before he cleaned his tray from the table as well.

John stared between Teyla and Carter before wordlessly clearing his tray as well.

Carter's eyes flashed in amusement as she pulled something from the inside of her jacket and slid it towards Teyla—a chocolate bar. "Thank you; that was…fun."

Teyla pocketed the bar quickly and gave Carter a look of mirth. "That it was. Thank you, Colonel Carter. Enjoy your lunch."

With the usual Athosian forehead greeting, Teyla left and Carter smiled serenely as she gazed out into the waters of Atlantis.

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	7. Find Higher Ground

07\. Find Higher Ground

When Rodney needed to be grounded, he sought out John. He needed that definition, that compartmentalization of sorting square blocks to their round places.

John needed Rodney so he could be anchored, but only because Rodney could take him higher, higher to the not-quite-gravity of an unfamiliar atmosphere, past the new Armstrong-limit, past the different edges of a newly-colored stratosphere and exosphere.

In the end (what they think is the end in their own separate ways), they sat on the pier, watching the twin moons of New Lantea cross the sky, blazing a course across their tidally-locked paths.

John was fuzzy with exhaustion more than alcohol when he yanked his knee to his chest and muttered into his outer thigh, face open for once and pained, that he _couldn't_ lose his anchor.

Rodney blinked owlishly at him, and John saw his tether falling away.

John pretended it was the beer that made him kick back the sudden tightness in his throat when he realized how much of Rodney had shattered into particles of sun-dappled light that he couldn't touch, not even with his own hands. Being physical would just make it more painful, more _real_ , and as the smaller moon disappeared in the night, John decided instead to dig his fingers into his ankle.

It was something John couldn't forget when Rodney crumpled and broke like fractured glass in front of him, faded like the barrier between the mesosphere and exosphere. Rodney reached for him, hands grasping for the one thing that grounded him.

John choked on the lump in his throat as he held Rodney, suddenly and brutally finding out with razor-edged, bleeding clarity that even as Rodney clung to him in a desperate, tactile way, all John could think of was what lay between the sky and stars—the faded, blink-and-miss-it barrier between gravity and vacuum.

John reluctantly grasped his fingers to Rodney's broad shoulders while still battling the sky-high thrill that became Rodney's seeking hands.

"Rodney," John grunted, hitching the other man closer, "I'm not going anywhere, I _promise_."

Rodney's fingers tighten. "All these stars, John…you showed me; you showed me the _stars_ and I can't remember them, but I know _you can_ , and you're _my stars_ , and you took me _up_ and—"

"They're still there, Rodney, look!" John tried to break contact, because it was making his insides twist and break as Rodney fell to pieces in his arms.

Rodney shook his head. When he spoke again, his voice was cracked into as many pieces as there were stars in their view. "But…John…" Rodney stopped, his fingers jerking, " _John_ …"

John coughed and finally gave up as Rodney clutched at him, allowing the physicality of the situation for more reasons than he cared to admit. "I'm here," he decided to go with, feeling utterly useless.

Rodney suddenly jerked before he tugged back to look John in the eyes. "You're my higher ground; don't you _see_?"

John had to physically swallow his response as Rodney faded into senility again, unable to express much more than grabbing at John. It didn't work, and he was muttering before he could stop it, even though Rodney likely didn't hear or understand.

"You're my _anchor_ , don't you _get it_?" John asked hoarsely, and pushed back vicious tears when Rodney mumbled incoherently against his shoulder.

Rodney stared dazedly at the sky, beer forgotten and uncaring that John held him.

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	8. Let's All Take a Peek Behind the Curtain

08\. Let's All Take a Peek Behind the Curtains

Lorne didn't know what he expected to find when he was asked "discreetly" to search for Sheppard and McKay. When Caldwell and Weir both asked him in clipped, militaristic tones to simply _find_ them, Lorne had responded like a soldier.

He had a mission, there was a purpose. Whether he agreed with it or not, he wasn't sure.

Slowly, Lorne needled through the city, using his gene when he could to try and get Atlantis to give up her secrets.

In the end, however, it wasn't his gene but a soft murmur of vocals that drew his attention, followed by a wounded sob. He followed the noise, feeling uncomfortably like the city had given him terms and conditions about what Atlantis would allow him to see before he was able to encroach on the conversation.

As such, Lorne walked carefully and listened as closely as he dared.

"—thought I c-c-could m-m-make it work!" a stuttered voice rung out, and Lorne stopped short. The voice was both familiar and strange, and he craned his head silently to hear more. It was almost like the city was making low humming noises that prevented him from hearing the more distinct parts of the conversation.

"—tried, it's not your fault. We don't know that anyone but—"

"But what if they did, huh? What then?"

The manic, hysterical tone made Lorne shift. That was definitely Dr. Rodney McKay.

Lorne waited.

Next came a smooth, tired sound—distinctly a sigh. "We _don't_ know—" was the soft encouraging follow-up.

Lorne jumped when McKay's voice started yelling, and yeah, that was _definitely_ McKay.

"We _don't_ know! And you'll never _trust_ me again!" This time, McKay's voice was bitter and devastated, and Lorne felt a flush creeping up his neck, as if he had breached Atlantis's confidence in him. The hum of the city lessened though, and Lorne calmly leaned against the wall, trying to discern who was with McKay.

"It'll be okay, Rodney; _we_ will be okay."

Lorne knew in an instant, his spine straightening in recognition and training, that the second voice was undeniably Colonel Sheppard.

"It'll be okay," Sheppard repeated, and this time, his voice was almost pleading in a way Lorne was unfamiliar with. " _Please_ , Rodney…it'll be okay, I swear. We'll be okay."

There was more snuffling noises as McKay seemed to gather himself.

"Really?" McKay asks with broken need.

Lorne hesitated at the raw devastation in the scientist's voice, finger obediently following above the trigger of his P90. He wasn't sure, but the city seemed to approve of the fact he hadn't radioed in yet.

"Really," Sheppard replied in a hoarse tone.

Lorne backed away at the stripped, scraped quality of Sheppard's voice, and he felt a lot like Atlantis had suddenly trusted him to hear more than he should have. The next sounds that came are a lot like clothing and bodies, and he decided he has heard enough.

"Dr. Weir," he tapped in his headset when he felt that he had put enough distance between himself and Sheppard and McKay, "They're fine."

" _Fine_ , Major?" Elizabeth's voice was sharp and not understanding—she didn't get it.

"They're fine," Lorne repeated firmly. He thought carefully before he spoke again. "Just playing chess near the pier; they needed to decompress is all."

Atlantis hummed at Lorne in response.

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	9. Forget Standard Procedure

09\. Forget Standard Procedure

At the end of the day, Sheppard knew "what" they had found. McKay knows "what" they had retrieved. What stunk to hell and back was what Woolsey's opinion of "what" they have was brought back for closer scrutiny.

Behind a curtain of privacy, Carson, Sheppard, Woolsey, and McKay spoke.

She could tell their names, though she wasn't able to get any further.

"She's just a kid! A _baby_ practically!" Sheppard yells indignantly.

"It's what she _could_ become, Colonel," Woolsey pointed out, but the usual stoicism was missing from his voice in lieu of the reluctant hesitance.

"What do _you_ think, Carson? Can you help her?" McKay asked, sounding strained and on the verge of demanding the same impossibilities that had been pulled from him on a weekly basis.

She blinked, aware of the stink of humans and alert of her growing weakness. She thrashed against her restraints, her small body giving a decent fight against the ties that bound her. It wasn't enough.

Carson sounded both quiet and reluctant. "The most humane thing to do would be a drug cocktail designed to kill her. We can'na feed her the way she needs, and I can'na alter her this young on the genetic level. We certainly can'na send her home, and I'll be damned if I let her end up with Area 51 or the IOA."

She hissed at the sweet weakness around her. She raised her scarred-open palms as much as she could see, and gave in immediately to the _need_ that made her want to screech at the nurse attending to her.

She hadn't been listening for a while, and wasn't sure what it meant when she heard Sheppard speak.

"Get out," Sheppard ordered, " _Now_."

"I'm not leaving," McKay responded.

She heard others leaving, the lights suddenly dimming in the room they had her caged in. She hissed again when footsteps came near her, her hands feebly reaching up to feed.

Solid, cool, metallic—an open hole of metal pressed against her temple. Her hand jerked again, threatening to break through the bonds.

Sheppard hesitated with harsh, choked breathing, something that sounded like a held-back cry.

McKay placed his fingers around Sheppard's on the pistol.

She smelled their presence and gnashed her too-human teeth at the sickening pair of them. They were weak, they were food, they were _nothing_ —

Next, there was a ballistic shot through the base of her skull where she had least expected it.

As consciousness left the vastness of the mind she had available while so young, her head fell to the side. The last thing she saw—heard— _felt_ —is the fact they didn't want her to die.

Blood and life spilled from her head, and she _smiles_ —

They were everything she was not— _weakness._

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	10. Buy into a Good Story

10\. Buy into a Good Story

The campfire was wild and bright around them, Dr. Porter's face alive and youthful in the light. "He _did_ , I saw it!" she exclaimed, her pale cheeks flushed against the shock of dark hair. Her eyes were alit and wide. "SGA-1 can do the impossible!"

Ronon snorted quietly as he exchanged a look with Sheppard, who rolled his eyes and cocked his head to keep watch.

"They always save us, don't they?" Dr. Porter asks fiercely. "No other team seems to be that good."

Next was a female snort, followed by the obvious sound of a gun being loaded and raised. "I can shoot; that means defense."

Ronon rolled his eyes and head, staring heavily at Sheppard, who only gave a shrug in response.

Cruz was still blustering, holding her P90 securely when she felt the metallic scrape against her temple.

"So shoot," Ronon growled simply.

Cruz held her hands up. "So I'm supposed to be prepared for someone in my own camp that was supposed to be keeping watch without knowing what got them to this position?"

Ronon turned, shifting his weapon to the front of her face. "Doesn't matter how they got there." He leaned in close, white teeth bared against the dancing flames of campfire. "What matters if you can take them out." He lifted his weapon, but still kept the barrel needled to Cruz's temple. "When needed."

"Ronon," Sheppard said in an almost warning.

Ronon took in Cruz's glittering stare, appreciating the resistance he hadn't seen in too long since becoming a runner, since losing Meyla, since Sateda. The stare held longer than either of them would have liked, one defiant and one pleading, though for different reasons and from different emotions, but coming from both of them.

When Ronon heard later that Cruz had died (shot down by natives in an off-world mission gone terribly wrong, along with Porter), he decided to simply hate everything a little bit more. He was brutal in training, merciless in showing the Satedan ways of fighting.

He couldn't fight how someone (somewhere, some _how_ ) thought his story was worth telling.

Ronon preferred to rotate his weapons within his palms, a tactile feeling that allowed him to forget—

He ground his teeth, thinking of Porter and Cruz, and laid his opponent to the floor.

His was not a story to buy into.

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	11. Let's All Turn Gravity Off

11\. Let's All Turn Gravity Off

The red bio-signatures flashed off the screen, and the entire control room's personnel seemed frozen in shock. It was only moments, seconds, and minutes…everything stretched forever as people stuttered into motion in their effort to save the city that had become home.

John sat in the mess all, over-caffeinating in an attempt to be alert for the next crisis. The only thing it actually did was edge his over-wrought nerves into more pieces that he couldn't seem to sew back together. He didn't even notice when McKay exhaustedly fell into a chair across from him, their boots knocking sluggishly between.

John looked up, seeing the tired lines and lack of rest on Rodney's face as surely as he felt it—bone-deep and etched into his corneas. He rubbed a hand over his face, as if to wipe away the stress and loss as Rodney mechanically ate.

They said nothing about the marine and two scientists, the ones they would eventually need to recover the bodies of. The gravity and atmosphere were still shot in that corridor, as open to space as their faces are now.

They didn't talk about the impending failure of what shield remained, or even the fact that Atlantis was little more than a sitting duck right now.

Rodney still ate in silence, automatically shoving food into his mouth and obviously swallowing with some effort.

John hated that Rodney was only eating because it was required of his body, hated that it was only perfunctory.

Rodney hated the bruise-like circles of unrest beneath John's eyes, the way John's body refuses to uncoil.

Both wanted to say _something_.

What they said and did instead was stare at their own empty trays until it was obvious that they were lingering. Once that fact had become apparent, John abruptly started to gather his tray when the silence weighed too much.

Rodney startled at the movement. "John," he inquired, his voice something too reminiscent of under-confidence, of insecurity, of—

"Yeah?" John asked back, not willing to analyze too closely what he could hear in the tiny cracks of Rodney's voice.

Rodney looked defeated and reluctant, his knuckles white-gripped on his tray. "I have some beer…meet me on the northeast pier in twenty?"

John agreed, mostly because yeah, a beer sounded amazing.

Three hours later, as the moons stretch across the nebulous, alien sky, and feeling more than a little buzzed, John bumped his shoulder against Rodney's. The movement causes both of them to tilt backwards to look at the stars.

Rodney sounded slurred as he spoke, leaning into John as if seeking warmth. "They died quickly," he mutters, his mouth almost dropping the words like bombs.

John stiffened beside of him. "I know," he responded, his voice cracking and drowned by the words he didn't say, the guilt coloring his tone and face equally.

Rodney suddenly grabbed John's hand, tracing fingers in a parabolic arc that only Rodney knew. He didn't speak; he only tried to speak the natural forces of the universe with John's hand in his own.

"You know…I hated the vomit comet."

John snorted at Rodney's admission. "I…may have flown that once or twice."

Rodney turned a bit and glared at him. "On behalf of every scientist here who had to go through that," he leaned in close, and John's hands abruptly held Rodney's shoulders in response, " _Fuck you_."

What John didn't expect was Rodney suddenly dumping the last of his beer over John's face.

John sputtered against the warm, carbonated liquid, and then laughed, pulling Rodney back to him in a buzzed state he didn't want to examine.

"Was no picnic for me either," John admitted, tamping down the urge to do more.

Rodney had no such compunction apparently, and slid an arm underneath John's head for support. "Never is when you turn gravity off," he said tiredly, insistently pulling John to his chest.

John leaned toward the warmth of Rodney's body—it was pretty cold right now, and he was a little drunk and a lot tired of never having anyone to lean on. "It wasn't your fault."

Rodney didn't respond, but he tightened the arm around John's shoulders instead.

There was a long silence before Rodney spoke again.

"So yeah, if you've flown the vomit comet... _fuck you_."

John laughed before he slipped one hand up to Rodney's face, stared at him in consideration for a moment, and then passed out against Rodney's chest.

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	12. Reinvent Reality

12\. Reinvent Reality

"Carson, you can do this! Stop being so afraid!"

Carson glared from the dull grays and muted blues of the inactive Antarctic control chair. " _You_ try it then; you're so smart!"

"I'm not here for my genetic expression," Dr. Sheppard responded. "Yours is the strongest we have right now, outside of General O'Neill."

Carson got up as O'Neill rushed through, an unknown pilot stalling behind to look at the equipment in curiosity. His uniform indicated Canadian military and his last name to be McKay, though what a Canadian pilot could have done to get assigned here, Carson didn't want to know.

"I _can't_ , alright?" Carson squawked as he turned away from the chair, even as the easy look faded from Dr. Sheppard's face, replaced with irritation and impatience.

Dr. Sheppard spared a wary glance towards the Canadian pilot. "Don't touch."

McKay rolled his eyes. "Not touching, see?" he responded, holding his hands up.

Dr. Sheppard turned away, calling after Carson, who had fled the room.

McKay hesitated as he approached the odd-looking chair, and noted that Dr. Sheppard seemed to have run after the man who had sat before. Something pulled at him, something nagged that he needed to sit, even after he poked at the odd, gel-like material at the end of the arm-rests. And really, he wasn't _touching_ anything; he was just _sitting_ —

Like that, McKay settled into the chair, and just as abruptly, the whole room seems to light up as the chair illuminated and reclined. McKay suddenly had too many pairs of eyes on him all at once. It made his skin crawl a bit, with pride more than anything.

McKay turned an arrogant smile to Dr. Sheppard, who looked shocked and excited. "Did I do that?" he asked.

Dr. Sheppard looked at the tablet in his hands, and then shifted forest-colored eyes—green and gold—back to McKay. When he spoke again, his voice was low, intense, and anticipatory. "McKay," he said, approaching the chair slowly, "Think about where we are in the solar system."

McKay thought, and his entire universe lit like a spark.

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	13. Fan the Flames

12\. Fan the Flames

General Landry practically shot from his chair when the words came over the phone, and he cursed furiously as the implications became clear.

He ran to the quarters of the military expedition members of Atlantis. He knew most would be empty; he hadn't expected to find military ID cards, rank insignias, and IDC information on their beds as well. The scientists' share of Atlantis members yielded similar results. A bare handful of tight-lipped civilians and military were all that stayed behind, all of whom insist they know nothing.

Atlantis had left the San Francisco bay, flown back into the sky like a forgotten dream.

It was only when O'Neill, Jackson, Carter, and Woolsey were discovered as MIA that Landry cracked down on his last resource to figure out just what the fuck happened. This situation was beyond FUBAR, beyond a SNAFU.

Teal'c, however, looked as blank and impassive as ever.

"Did they really just _steal_ Atlantis?" Landry finally asked.

There was a long moment as Teal'c seemed to consider his answer, as well as the consequence.

"Well?" Landry demanded.

Teal'c tilted his head, his alien face abruptly foreign and stoic at the same time. "Was it really _stolen_ , General Landry?" Teal'c shifted where he sat; an almost imperceptible move that left Landry wondering what the hell Teal'c really knew but wouldn't say.

Landry dropped into a chair in frustration. "The city was here, and now it's not," Landry pointed out.

Teal'c nodded, his dark eyes expressive and questioning. "Perhaps the children of the Ancestors have seen to its safety."

Landry shoved the strangled grunt of frustration down his throat. "They're flying it back, aren't they?" The question was more statement than inquiry.

"The Ancestors must need it, and their children are seeing to that need," Teal'c answered enigmatically.

The exasperated grunt of irritation escaped Landry this time, coming out as a choke. "Go home, Teal'c."

Teal'c left silently with his heavy implications weighing down the entire SGC.

Landry opened a drawer on his desk, looking carefully at the SGC ID's of Carter, Woolsey, O'Neill, and Jackson. He sighed heavily as he sat behind his desk, the blunt plastic of their ID cards cutting into his skin.

An IOA representative entered; Landry recognized her vaguely. He thought her name might be Wray?

"They left?" she asked neutrally in a way that made his teeth grind. She took up a seat on the other side of his desk, though they both knew where the real power was.

"Atlantis was never meant to be ours for the taking," Landry conceded as the plastic ID's catch stronger into his skin, branding what the SGC used to mean into his fingers and palms.

Wray, her ID confirmed, shrugged, as if to dismiss the idea of who or what Atlantis belonged to. "See to it that al badges and IDC's from Atlantis are disabled," she said coolly. "They are no longer a reliable source."

Landry startled at that. "What if they need our help?"

"Then they'll have to go through the usual diplomatic relations," Wray replied, but her tone implied that there would be _no_ trading with the Pegasus galaxy, not with the threat of the Wraith and the promise of the Icarus Project offering new prospects. "Just like any other unknown civilization."

Landry didn't bother to point out that Atlantis had survived this long with few supply runs from Earth; he didn't think they would start begging now. Instead, he remembered that Wray was on the Icarus project with Dr. Rush and Colonel Young, and Landry didn't want to get near that even with a Goa'uld or Wraith weapon in front of him.

Wray left as Landry was still considering her order; he knew that the IOA could do what they needed to ensure his cooperation. Reluctantly, he made the call to disable any and all IDC's that had been gathered from what they had collected from the empty quarters.

Landry opened the palm holding _their_ plastic badges, startled to see his palm lined in blood. The screaming was plain as day through his veins, that this was _wrong_ , but all the blood does was add fuel to the fire.

The flames were out of control and he had no way to fan them down.

Their badges remain in his desk, even when the IOA reassigns him, because at the end of the day, he couldn't help fanning the flames in way he possibly could.

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	14. Let's All Be Kids Again

14\. Let's All Be Kids Again

Keller watched quietly as John talked Rodney down, patiently and intimately, as if they were talking about the weather. She only caught bits and pieces, as she was monitoring Rodney's ever-decreasing brain function. She was also eyeing the cameras that recorded Rodney's downward spiral as well as her own exhaustion.

Rodney's voice rang out suddenly, child-like and petulant, in a pitch Keller was unfamiliar with.

"I don't…I can't…I can't walk around here all alone!"

John made a noise of acquiescence. "I can't either, buddy."

Rodney looked desperate and feral. "Hold my hand then—it's _your_ city!"

John seemed to hesitate before allowing Rodney to lace their hands together. When the Colonel spoke again, his voice was tight and desperate. "How about I walk with you?" he said, and Keller can see the way Rodney tightened around John's hand, trying to find his way back to sanity.

Rodney looked at John blearily. "I'm not a doctor; I don't know where I'm goin'…" he trailed off in misery.

John blinked, his whole frame tense, and he suddenly reaffirmed the hold on Rodney's hand. His features looked tortured, somewhere between restrained and brutally open.

Keller jumped when John finally talked, the silence had held for that long.

"Rodney…" John croaked, his voice broken and edged in sharp, painful clarity, "It's murdering me…it's fucking _killing_ me to see you like this."

Rodney looked up, his hands jerking around as if he they _should_ be doing something, but also like he couldn't figure out _what_ his hands ought to be doing.

There was a jarring moment of clarity that shook Keller to the core as Rodney suddenly came back to himself. "What's wrong; I'm in the infirmary, and you're here, there's cameras, I _don't know_ —"

The cloudiness fought and stormed over Rodney's face, and Sheppard slumped in his chair, fingers lacing and tightening in Rodney's hand as the moment of reality passed.

Rodney stared, child-like at John. "There's…" He hesitates, blue eyes much too blue and too wide for a man his age, before he went on, as if deciding John were okay, "There's…this…this old voice is in my head…he's kind of mean, and he's holding me _back_ …"

John edged back, as if trying to draw Rodney from an edge that no one knew the scientist was even standing on. "Tell him that I miss our little talks."

Rodney pouted.

Keller took her attention away from the camera, feeling very much that she had seen more of Sheppard than Rodney, and the open, vulnerable look on Sheppard's face was suddenly far too much for her to deal with.

Rodney was humming after she had turned away, and then singing slightly. The words were slurred and made little sense.

Keller couldn't make it out, but she listened as John suddenly joined in, humming and mimicking the tune even though they were both off-key.

Like children, imagining a world of youth and song and health, John and Rodney sang about ships, truths, and the shores of a land that would see to their needs and their safety; they sang about ghosts and shadows, about tired, empty halls and little talks and varying truths.

Keller suddenly realized that the sandy shores they sang about would only ever be about Atlantis, and she redoubled her effort, because if she can save Rodney…

If she could save Rodney, that meant she could save John too.

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	15. Build Our Own Wagons

15\. Build Our Own Wagons

Author's Note: This can be seen as a follow up of sorts to 13. Fan the Flames. However, both can be enjoyed or read separately without the other.

There really wasn't much of a plan once Sheppard got Atlantis back to Pegasus. There was only the sense of home and belonging and _family_.

John leaned against a balcony, wanting to look casual, but it was all harsh lines of tension instead. He felt shot through with weariness and exhaustion, and a handful of other emotions he didn't care or was too tired to give name to. His head dropped as the familiar scent of the sea and the sound of waves struggled to calm him as much as the city beneath his boots.

John felt it through the walls, the balcony, the fucking _floor_ that Rodney had joined him at the pier. It was like the connection between his errant ancient gene and Atlantis had increased ten-fold since John had guided her back to the oceans of Pegasus.

Rodney slid his hands artlessly over the railing. "So…" he trailed.

"So…" John responded neutrally, unwilling to give anything away. His whole existence was upended, only slightly righted by Teyla and Ronon's presence, to say nothing that the plan had been as much Rodney's idea as his own.

"Did we do the right thing?" Rodney suddenly blurted uncontrollably, his face red and uncertain.

John stared out into the water, his gaze far off and a bit shell-shocked. "For Atlantis, no doubt." He reached beneath the collar of his black tee shirt, drawing out the chain of his dog tags. "For others…" he drawled out, but didn't finish, opting instead to simply stare at the metal between his fingers.

Rodney said nothing to start with—no witty reply about the American military, no condescending point of knowledge about how those tags didn't exactly _matter_ here, not to mention at _all_ , seeing as their SGC badges were elsewhere, and _really_ —

What Rodney did instead deepened and lessened the shell-shock, putting John into a state of confused flux that he couldn't quite wrap his mind around.

Rodney snatched the metal ball and chain of John's dog tags and jerked until John was nose-to-nose with his serious features.

The tags clinked, but John didn't back off. "What?" he asked sharply.

Rodney didn't back down either. "Are you _really_ that stupid?" he scoffed, breath chasing across John's chin.

"Enlighten me," and John finally gave in to the discomfort, trying to pull back.

" _These_ ," Rodney yanked the chain again, making it clear he wasn't allowing John to go anywhere, "Are who you were _and_ part of who you are. We've had a lot of little talks, you and I, John. Don't fucking torture yourself because we did what we _had_ to do. We brought her home and you _know_ it. Not to mention we brought hope back to Pegasus, so don't you dare stand there and question whether we did the right thing for _whom_." He dropped the metal tags both carelessly and defiantly, as if daring John to say different.

John scrubbed his hand over his face, the flush rising deep on his neck, and it wasn't all from anger. "And the people who came with us?"

Rodney snorted. "They knew as much now as they did then what they were in for. I mean, holy Christ, we only got out of the solar system thanks to some programming code from Sam, not to mention Jack pulling some swing with the Asgard to scramble some sensors so they couldn't track us right away. Do you really think that whoever's here doesn't want to be here?"

John couldn't laugh at it; he wanted to, but it stopped and choked in his throat. Arms balanced on the railing, his head dropped again, because he had the feeling if he _did_ start laughing, it would become hysterical and manic before he could stop it. "Christ, Rodney, what the fuck are we _doing_?"

Rodney slid down to the floor, his legs hanging off the edge of the pier, his arms draped over a piece of railing. He waved his hand absently, his mouth opening several times before he jokes, "We're building our own wagons, exploring the frontier, going where no—"

John snorted to cut him off, but sat beside of Rodney, thighs pressed together and forearms glancing in casual touch, the sort he had never allowed before, but hey, the rules were different in Pegasus. "And this?" He reached to his chest again and held something up.

The metallic glares of John's tags were silver blue in the twin moonlight.

Rodney gave an exasperated huff before he yanked the chain over John's head and with an engineer's efficiency, broke off one tag and tossed the remainder into the distance with more heft than John would have given him credit for.

John choked, sputtering and unable to form coherent words as he watched a piece of himself fade into the dark.

"Build a wagon with me then, John," Rodney said while holding the remaining tag within their line of vision, "But don't forget who taught you how."

John thought silently long enough that he felt Rodney shift uncertainly beside of him. He looked at their outstretched arms, the ethereal light splayed over their skin. He ducked his head, resting his chin on the elbow that brushed against Rodney. His gaze was still unfocused and distant, right up until he made the deliberate movement of lacing their hands together.

Rodney sighed quietly beside of him. "I'll build; you watch the homestead."

John half-snorted, half-chuckled in response, but the silence was comfortable when Rodney's fingers tightened against his own.

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	16. Play a New Game

16\. Play a New Game

Elizabeth splayed her hands on the desk, trying to summon up the patience she needed as she stared at McKay and Sheppard. Granted, given the last accident with Ancient technology had yet to wear off (though Carson had assured her, with Zelenka backing him up, it _would_ ), she was staring at a pair of guilty-looking eleven-year-olds.

Sheppard looked remarkably the same—had the same unruly hair, observant green eyes, but no remains of his permanent 5'o'clock shadow. He was as skinny as ever, maybe a bit _too_ skinny, with gangly limbs that he didn't seem to have full control over, if the bruises littering his knees and shins were any indication.

Rodney looked as different as Sheppard looked the same. His hair was lighter, longer, and curling slightly. The perpetual disappointment and tension was gone from his pale face, blue eyes no longer as condescending or jaded. He was rounder and softer, and seemed less likely to get in someone's face.

Elizabeth sighed, struggling to remember that they were really grown-ass men who _really_ ought to have _known better_.

"It's blatant misuse and abuse of energy _and_ tech," she said, trying for severe. It was ruined by a twitch at the corner of her mouth and the fact she felt more like the Mother of Atlantis than ever.

McKay and Sheppard at least seemed to have the good sense to look contrite yet mutely excited—Elizabeth would bet her last box of peppermint tea _and_ can of broccoli cheddar soup that as soon as she dismissed them, there would be a childish conversation about how _cool_ and _awesome_ and _let's do it again, but when she isn't looking_ to be exchanged.

Elizabeth sighed wearily as the boys hunched in their chairs, a distinct lack of apology in their frames. "Seriously, gentleman? I know this accident is probably…" She coughed delicately. "Bringing out the children in you, but do I really have to explain why using the transporters for a game of hide-and-seek is _bad_? Especially when it turned into a search-and-rescue for you both when you ended up in a half-flooded room?"

She knew that if they had been their usual selves, the half-flooded room wouldn't have posed too serious a threat…but they found Sheppard desperately holding up an exhausted McKay, who had been unable to keep his head above the water.

Sheppard glared down before jabbing McKay's knee with his own. They exchanged a quick look that involved Sheppard jerking his head in Elizabeth's direction and McKay looking absolutely mutinous.

McKay rolled his eyes. "We're _sorry_ , alright? We were trying to see how far the transporters could operate!"

Elizabeth scoffed. "Right." She finally sat down. "Be more careful when "exploring and testing", gentleman? I know this accident has been keeping you from your normal duties, but just because you appear to be children doesn't mean you should _act_ like children."

The saddest part was that Elizabeth knew whether they had been transformed or not, she would probably still be giving them some kind of talking-to about abusing tech for entertainment purposes.

Effectively dismissed, McKay and Sheppard started to slink out of her office, though not as properly chastised as she would have liked.

Elizabeth grimaced and pinched the bridge of her nose. "Colonel, Doctor?"

They both turned like guilty school boys.

"Play a new game that doesn't involve wasting what resources we have. Dismissed."

A few days later, and they were back to normal. Through the inevitable grapevine, however, Elizabeth heard about remote-control cars racing in abandoned corridors.

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	17. Let's All Branch Out

17\. Let's All Branch Out

Author's Notes: Yes, yes, yes, I know…the repeal of DADT has been done to death…but I never did write my own spin and take on how many of us felt when it was put into action. There isn't much to say, seeing as I was in and out before it did go away, but I had a relative who more or less got discharged for bullshit reasons when the real reason was because she was gay. Dedicated to her and her beautiful family and to the people who saw what narrow-minded shit it was to exclude for service due to sexual orientation.

~Elise aka Hisako~

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The day after Woolsey delivered the message to the senior staff, the reaction was obvious. A good third of the Atlantis complement unwound from a tension that had gone unnoticed until it was no longer there. It wasn't like people were making out in the halls with the sheer freedom of it, but the sense of relief was palpable.

Meanwhile, Sheppard's team had been on recon on a known Wraith outpost so McKay could test a new coding program intended to disable the hyperdrives on hive ships without the destruction that the rogue Asgard had intended.

Teyla's IDC came through for their return, and the panic on her face was obvious as she came through the gate. "Medical!" she shouted, looking grim.

Ronon came through next, limping slightly with his weapon still raised and wearing the same look of guarded tension that Teyla held in her frame.

Wraith weapon blasts broke from the gate, leaving marks around the gate room as Teyla demanded Woolsey leave the shield down for just a few more moments.

Seconds later, Sheppard and McKay tumble through the gate, face down and hurt.

"Shield!" McKay hoarsely screamed.

The ethereal pink-cloud draped over the gate, followed by the sound of several dull impacts, before the event horizon winked out.

Keller approached McKay and Sheppard. "What happened?"

McKay's hand is firmly entrenched in Sheppard's TAC vest. "We had a fucking picnic, what do you think?" he choked sarcastically before he passed out, half over Sheppard's body as if he were still protecting him.

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When John woke, there was a pressure on his legs. He wondered how badly he was hurt until he opened his eyes to see where the source of weight was coming from.

He was in the infirmary, and Rodney's ankles were draped over his shins, said-scientist asleep in a chair beside his bed. Rodney's head was drooped down in sleep, his arms crossed over his blue science shirt.

John tried for words, but it came out as a grunted whisper. He bounced his legs next instead.

Rodney jerked awake, blue eyes drowsy and fuzzy before slowly focusing on John.

John swallowed, a dry patch making him gag before Rodney settled a straw to his lips. The water helped and he tried to speak again. "What'd I miss?" he asked with his usual shadow of amusement at being in the infirmary.

Rodney smiled brilliantly, like a super-nova, a 1000-watt smile, that John barely registered before the Rodney was kissing him.

John grunted in protest immediately, green eyes wide and searching the infirmary for its usual complement of nurses and doctors. "Rodney, what the _fuck_ —"

"It's been repealed," Rodney blurted out. "I don't know the Air Force section number, but the whole thing—don't ask, don't tell, whatever it is, it's _gone_."

John's eyes went wide, struggling through a haze of fatigue, drugs, and pain to comprehend. He passed out instead, Rodney's hands cradling his face openly, Rodney's voice carrying him from fear to panic attack to losing consciousness.

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When John came to again, he was groggy and cotton-headed. He shifted before assessing his situation, much as he had before. The sluggish feeling in his head was more from too much sleep than anything he had been given in the infirmary.

Certain that his mind was clear, he opened his eyes to the dimmed, after-hours lighting of the infirmary. John had the strength to reach for the cup of melting ice chips. It was about then he realized the weight near his hip, with additional dips in the bed close to and over his ribs and legs.

He looked down, only to see Rodney asleep, bent awkwardly from a visitor's chair. His head was nudged against John's hip, one arm draped over John's knees, the other jutted against John's side.

"Hey, Colonel," a soft female voice called, intruding upon the healing safety he had felt just moments before.

"I—" John choked, "He—"

Keller shook her head in amusement. "He's barely left, you know." She inspected the monitors while apparently taking no note of the budding panic in her patient.

John stuttered incoherently.

Keller tapped the tubing below the IV bag. "It's okay. No one cares."

"But—Section—"

Keller pinned him with her glare. "Been repealed, Colonel. Dr. McKay tried to tell you when you were conscious the first time, but it didn't take." She checked his IV once more and left them in privacy, only indicating that she would be back to take more vitals and see when she could release him.

John allowed the impact of her statement to wash through him. It wasn't enough to feel freedom completely yet, but in the privacy of the infirmary, he let his hand stroke over Rodney's hair. It was rough to the touch, feeling a lot like his hair did when washing with the medical grade infirmary soap that doubled as body-wash.

Rodney nuzzled against his hip sleepily, the arm over John's knees tightening. There was a puff of breath from Rodney's mouth—it looked as if he might be dreaming. "Love you," Rodney slurred out before pushing his face into John's flank.

John was still out of it, still fuzzy with too much rest, and meant to say that they would talk about it later.

"Love you," John replied instead, and fell asleep to Rodney's even breathing against his hip, his hand still drifting over Rodney's hair.

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	18. Break Out

18\. Break Out

John could hear the screaming—long and hollow, like someone who had never been intentionally hurt before. He clenched his teeth, rhythmically dragging his nails across his palms as he struggled against the bonds that held his hands behind his back. It helped to center him.

He looked up when a thud sounded off behind him, and watched as Rodney lifted his bruised, bloodied face from the dirty floor of the prison cell. A mocking voice on an intercom indicated that Rodney's performance was unsatisfactory today, and that the punishment was not yet over.

John grunted when someone pulled him to his feet, and he dug his heels in, boots dragging trails through the dust. "Look, can't we—"

He was cut off by a brutal fist to his mouth. He spit and choked, blood spattering the floor and a tooth clinking somewhere against the wall.

Rodney looked up in a daze, fingers scrabbling and looking for purchase, but he didn't seem able to function enough to get to his feet. "John, I'm sorry, I tried—"

The door slammed shut.

John had endured beatings before; had taken his licks long before he ever came to Atlantis. He knew before Ronon ever tried to teach him it was better to be limp so the blows coming his way didn't meet resistance and tension—roll with the punches, as it were, to minimize whatever damage was happening. It was a systematic beating, starting with pressure points and sensitive areas before moving on to torturous methods like electrocuting and finger-breaking.

John struggled and tried his best to make no sounds, knowing that they had a direct intercom into the cell where he was being held with Rodney.

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Rodney _might_ have been able to deal with everything else—forcibly kidnapped to work on their salvaged, half-assed put-together tech and then had the living daylights beaten out of him when his performance wasn't "up to snuff"—but when he heard the soft, barely-held grunts feeding into the cell, he grasped at the floor to push himself up.

His elbows gave out and he hit the floor mercilessly, ripping open the barely-coagulated lacerations on his face. He panted hard against the ground, puffs of dust and dirt swirling in front of his unfocused eyes as the sounds changed.

"Your doctor doesn't even seem to be _trying_ , you know," a measured voice said.

"Maybe because you beat the shit out of him and refused to feed him; one or the other," John's voice came next, lazy and forced, "Hell, sometimes he's just ornery for the hell of it, pick one."

There was a loud crack and John yelped. Rodney blinked as he watched his fingers move uselessly over the floor. His consciousness started to fade, even as more sounds, more yelling, more screaming filled the room.

"Rodney, I'm sorry; I'm so fucking _sorry_ , but they _know_ about my—"

The sounds cut off abruptly as Rodney lost the fight to stay conscious.

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Rodney came to slowly, lost and out of breath. It was a moment before he was coherent and then registered what he was hearing.

Screams reached into his cell, like nightmares personified into something tangible—abruptly, he heared the gagging and choking interspersed with the shouting and pleas. Maybe it was pain that made the image all the clearer—Sheppard choking and retching against what they were doing, cracks of bone and the impact of flesh against flesh—or maybe Rodney was hallucinating.

Rodney felt his stomach churn just as he dragged himself to the filthy drain in the room, and retched violently into it, his blunt fingers digging miserably into the ground. He glared at the guard who had opened the door, miserably spitting one final time.

" _What_?" Rodney snapped.

The guard smirked before the door was opened more fully, and a battered heap of cloth was dumped into the room. The door closed immediately again.

Rodney paid little attention, since his eyes were more trained on the two guards now watching the door. He poked the heap of clothing and death in front of him.

"Rodney," came a slurred voice, and then nothing.

Rodney jumped, his hands feeling everywhere. "Sheppard?"

The pile of blankets and human didn't move again, and Rodney felt the panic close around his throat. The intercom voice was taunting again, promising to give medical attention to Sheppard if Rodney just fixed and improved their technology, promised things that Rodney knows they won't deliver on. Rodney was pretty sure that they were linked to the Genii at this point.

Rodney couldn't think about much of anything the voice tried to wheedle out of him; he started uncurling the cloth instead. "Sheppard…Colonel… _John_ , please! Say something!" Rodney ground out, his throat rough and raspy from throwing up earlier.

The lifeless heap remained still; Rodney shoved a hand to John's sternum, thumbs and fingers and skin feeling for a heartbeat.

Rodney fought the choked sob of desperation that threatened to escape, even though he could feel the faint pulse of a heart against his hand beneath John's shirt. It wasn't steady. "Sheppard…" He felt his throat tighten. "John, I can feel your heartbeat and it's slowing down… _say something_!"

Sheppard suddenly jerked, forest-green eyes too dilated and too sluggish. He tried to smirk, but his lip barely twitched. His hand, three fingers out of alignment and the top scorched with burn marks, weakly snagged Rodney's wrist beneath his shirt.

"Do one thing for me," John ground out.

Rodney nodded, assessing the feel of the weak grip around his wrist and knowing that John was going.

"Give 'em hell," John grunted out and then lost consciousness again.

Rodney stuttered in response, looking wildly around for any means of a weapon, an escape—there was nothing, nothing but John slowly fading beneath him. He wanted to tell John to hang on, that they would be okay, that everything would be alright, tell the voice on the intercom that he was doing _nothing_ until they made sure John was gonna _live_ —

What happened instead was Rodney gave up. The determination dripped from his body, and he simply gave one more glare to the door—a weak one—and passed out, draped over John's broken body.

They were still lying into each other in protection when the Daedalus beamed them off the planet, miserable and broken. Wounds were cared for, heartbeats were restored, and they were headed back for Atlantis in the wake of the impromptu rescue mission.

John mostly heard whatever he could as he drifted in and out, that it _was_ the Genii, but Cowen this time, and Ladon had seen to it that the base there had been informed of what they needed to know regarding allied-relations with Atlantians with further promises that he would discipline the men involved.

He turned his head as easily as he could (not at all), ignoring the feel of bandages and splints all over his body, all so he could see that Rodney was there.

Rodney slept in the bed next to his, snoring and snuffling lightly, without complaint.

John turned his head back, settled into the pillows, and gave over to a healing sleep again.

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They had both been cleared for duty, but had no off-world missions on schedule. Teyla and Ronon had both checked in with them regularly, Zelenka and Woolsey had come by as well, and Keller had indicated that they may want to make appointments with the base psychologist.

What they did instead was share a 6-pack on the west pier, silent during the first beer.

"Can we never do that again?" Rodney asked idly when he reached for his second beer.

John snorted while holding up his broken right hand. "Ask me twice; see what happens."

Rodney opened his beer for him, his face serious and mouth downturned in a way John didn't want to remember. "I gave up, at the end, you know."

John pretended he didn't choke on his beer. "What do you mean, at the end?"

Rodney felt the flush creeping into his cheeks. "You were dying."

John didn't respond; only took a measured swallow of beer, because yeah, it wasn't like he needed Rodney to remind him how close he came to dying this time.

"I only gave up a little!" Rodney finally squawked defensively. "I just…I could've dealt with everything else, but then _you_ …" He trailed off, and John wondered what would have come next.

"It's okay, Rodney…I have the training to deal with…with _that_ ," John said ineffectually, but Rodney looked upset and distant. "It's the fucking Genii for christ's sake; they're ruthless."

Rodney clutched his beer before chugging the rest of it. He reached for a third, but was stopped by John grabbing his wrist. He turned deer-in-the-headlight eyes to John, his face stricken and terrified. " _Don't_ ," he managed out in a voice that sounded wrecked for all the wrong reasons.

John dropped his wrist like it had burned him, and the faint register of pain was shooting through his hand as he realized it wouldn't have mattered what hand he grabbed Rodney with.

"Look, Colonel…" Rodney stopped. "Sheppard…" He halted again, breathing hard and searching for words he normally had no trouble finding. " _John_ , we _can't_ , and _this_ is why."

John stopped breathing. He could feel Rodney's body radiating warmth beside of him, could feel the tension coiling Rodney like a spring bent past its breaking point. The beer felt cold in his hand, condensation striping watery beads over the pads of his fingertips.

"We can't, because…because we could've broken out if not," Rodney finished in a gush, directing a self-hating glare to his knees.

John put his beer down abruptly and stared at his splinted hand lying close to Rodney's bruised knuckles. Forgetting about the drink, he slid back on the pier so his balance would be okay, and then struggled Rodney down to the floor in a rare hug.

"Maybe I want to," John finally said into Rodney's face. "What then?"

Rodney still looked miserable. "What about next time?"

John sighed, his fingers digging into Rodney's shoulders. "Next time, we'll break out."

"How can you be so sure?" Rodney looked wild and upset.

John bit his tongue at first, fingers jerking against Rodney's shirt. He steeled himself, and then leaned to brush his mouth once, twice, and a last time against Rodney's lips. "Next time," he said, injecting as much solemnity into his voice as he can, as much promise as he can, "We'll fucking break the hell out. Get it?"

"Got it," Rodney swallowed as the words left his throat in agreement.

John nodded down at him. " _Good_."

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	19. Find Out

19\. Find Out

"Sheppard, McKay—I need to see you in my office," came Elizabeth's voice, crisp as always, but there was a reluctance shading her usual clarity.

Sheppard's pencil stopped writing; he was catching up on paper work while Teyla recovered from a broken wrist and Ford got over an allergic reaction to whatever was in the wine on PJ5-642. He grinned at his desk—the wine had definitely had some… _unique_ properties.

Rodney met him in the hallway by the transporter, his fingers tapping restlessly against his thigh. "Any idea what she wants?"

John shrugged, swiping his hand over the transporter door mechanism. "Maybe status updates on Teyla and Ford?"

Rodney shrugged, bumping shoulders casually but firmly with John as they entered the transporter. The doors slid shut. "Maybe she wants to know more about that last mission—no hostile natives, but we come back loopy as shit, Teyla has a broken wrist, Ford is erupting into hives, and you and I were… _leaning_ on each other, as it were?"

John ducked his head, almost bashfully, hesitating over the destination screen inside the transporter. "Still a good time though, right?"

Rodney tilted his head at him before grabbing John's hand and touching their destination. "Don't be a fucking moron on purpose or I'll have to rethink _everything_." They phase in and out briefly.

John rolled his eyes, but there was a relief there too as he kept the doors closed and he turned to Rodney. "Wouldn't dream of it," he drawled, leaning quickly in and out of Rodney's personal space, rocking on the fronts of his feet, hands behind his back.

Rodney smirked defiantly, his chin up and eyes darkened. " _Good_." The doors finally open. "Chess tonight?" he asks casually.

"If you can handle me kicking your ass, sure."

Rodney rolled his eyes, a witty response on his lips, but he suddenly stopped short, nearly clothes-lining John across the shoulders when he halted.

John started to question, but then saw what Rodney saw—Elizabeth's grimly thoughtful face and Ford—from behind—stiffly talking with twitchy hands.

They share a look, silently communicating what couldn't be said out loud, and now, Elizabeth was looking at them, and they couldn't suddenly find a radio frequency without Elizabeth _seeing_ it.

Elizabeth said something to Ford, and he left her office with little fanfare. He locked gazes with John, with all the conviction of a soldier who had done the right thing.

"I had to tell her, sir," Ford said, but there was no apology in his tone. "Good luck; I know you'll do what you have to, sir."

Ford walked away from them—he never made eye-contact with Rodney.

"What can we do for you, Dr. Weir?" Rodney asked impatiently, already on edge.

John said nothing; he knew what was coming.

"Lt. Ford has brought it to my attention that your last mission may have been… _different_ than what both your mission reports indicated," Elizabeth hinted.

"How so? He was a semi-coherent pile of sniffling allergies; what could he possibly know?" McKay snapped back sharply.

Elizabeth sighed, the reluctance clear in her voice—it was more obvious than it had been before when calling them to her office. What she did next, however, shocked them both to the core. When Colonel Caldwell entered the conference room, they both knew it was over.

There was a lot of noise after that, mostly from McKay and some not-so-loud protests from Lorne (though no less as enthusiastic), and a feeble bit from Elizabeth. Ultimately, Ford had told what happened on PJ5-642, and alien wine or not, it was just another blackened mark on Sheppard's record, and his rebellious streak against authority had apparently strung itself too thin.

It was stupid, John thought now, as he walked from Cheyenne Mountain with both his walking papers and non-disclosure agreement. He wasn't sure where to go really, until he remembered the mission that got him here in the first place. He found Rodney's apartment, and collapsed into the bed, already missing the salt-sweet smell of its owner.

When Rodney found him six months later, devastated and desperate, John spent the next six months convincing both of them that it hadn't been _anyone's_ fault—Ford had asked, and John didn't care enough to _not_ tell—not when it came to Rodney.

Walking papers securely tucked away in a folder that sat in a safe, it was how John found out that Rodney gave up Atlantis for him, and felt it shred his heart, fiber by fiber.

Rodney told him it wasn't the goddamn wine.

John told him it had never been the fucking wine.

They were sitting on Rodney's dusty couch in civilian clothes, watching a too-wrong documentary about interstellar travel a week after Rodney came home ( _to John_ ) when the scientist asked.

"Where to now?" Rodney settled his legs over John's.

John sipped his beer. He spun the mini-globe on the end table, settling narrow fingers over Rodney's ankles. He turned a lazy, heated gaze to Rodney, feeling like he was 17 and like the whole world was laid before him

"Let's find out, huh?" He let his fingers catch a random spot of the globe.

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	20. Let's All Hear the Gospel

20\. Let's All Hear the Gospel

There were very few morals that Todd subscribed to, very few things that genuinely made him feel pity—well, perhaps something closer to irritation at weakness. Maybe it was his prolonged contact with Sheppard and other humans that made— _something_ —well up, but he didn't care to examine it too closely.

They were really only trying to hide the vitally important fact that his hive no longer need to feed when, in a too-fake/too-sweet show of diplomacy, a group of simpering Wraith-worshipers were "gifted" to him.

It woke him, in the middle of the night, a screeched keening from too many voices. Pity plowed reluctantly through him, and he rose to investigate, because really, how else would he sleep properly? He ignored the whining keening of the drones that served on his ship, assuming that they were as yet unaccustomed to not feeding in the usual way.

What he found made his insides churn unfamiliarly—the worshipers are molesting the drones, hands dragging over their skin and begging to be fed upon.

Todd dropped them as soon as there is a planet available, and he brutally chose not to care whether it was habitable or not.

Worshipers indeed—as if that were any gospel worth hearing.

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	21. Spread the Word

21\. Spread the Word

John tried to spread the words he couldn't speak across Rodney's hips, tried to write them with his fingers across Rodney's chest, and tried to ineffectually speak them to Rodney's lips. Instead, his hands clutch at Rodney's hips, his knuckles drawing and pinching to Rodney's chest, and his lips failed to speak anything in favor of appreciating the slant of Rodney's mouth.

Rodney was bent over him, cock in his ass, when John finally uttered a choked admission of love.

John's cock was hard and practically weeping with pre-come as Rodney snapped his hips forward. John grunted, wordless pleas dropping now from his lips, begging for Rodney to love him back, to do something, to say something, _anything_ —

Rodney looked down, catching John's jaw before rolling his eyes and leaning down. "Of _course_ I fucking love you, you idiot." He thrusted, yelping sharply when John came, untouched, because of Rodney's words.

Huffing in arousal, Rodney holds John's face in his hands and bows his head to John's ear.

"Of fucking _course_ I love you," Rodney repeats. "Spread the goddamned word."

John spurted again when Rodney came, a great choking sound escaping from his throat that he wasn't sure was entirely intelligible.

When John came back to himself, it was to being wrapped up in Rodney, as branded to the scientist as he was to his own errant ATA gene, as possessed by Rodney as he was by Atlantis because of that gene. He sleepily tilted his head where Rodney has lain out beside of him, a dopey smile alighting over his features.

Rodney raised an eyebrow. "That good, huh?" he asked smugly.

John snorted into the pillow, chuckling lowly as he kissed the corner of Rodney's mouth. "You can spread the word on me any time."

Rodney groaned, but ended up gathering John to him all the same. "Dork."

"You love me."

There was a pause, and John froze, thinking that maybe it was still too new, but then Rodney relaxed a bit, tugging John close. "Yeah. Yeah, I do."

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	22. Pass it On

22\. Pass It On

Ronon got it first—some random flu-like ailment that put him down for 3 days. Teyla got it next, and was laid up for a week. Rodney got it, but was surprisingly back on his feet in less than 2 days.

John got it last, and was in the infirmary for a week. He glared at everyone until Carson finally released him, ordered to light duty and daily nebulizer treatments that left him feeling like he had drank too much coffee. Mostly, once he was out, he glared at Rodney.

Zelenka has just left the lab, waving tiredly at John when the colonel entered, occupied now only by Rodney.

"Yes?" Rodney asked absently, staring intensely at his computer screen.

"You just _had_ to pass it on, didn't you," John muttered, very close to pouting.

Rodney tilted his head, first at the cameras and then to John. "Carson says anyone from the Pegasus galaxy is susceptible. My ATA gene is fake—yours isn't."

John glared at Rodney's bland tone. "You fucking _knew_ that when you gave it to me!" he accused hotly.

Rodney shrugged innocently, crossing his arms over his chest. "I _suspected_ , yes, but—"

John wanted to throw him into a wall.

What happened instead was John relapsing with the odd, resilient Pegasus-flu. Next was Rodney sitting at John's bed all night, all ears for any potential breathing problems or other issues as he quietly worked.

John studied the blue glow on Rodney's face intently through half-open, feverish eyes.

Rodney saw him move. "John?" he asked, question and hesitance coloring his voice like shadows.

John was still slightly delirious with a fever that would eventually break in a couple of days. "You passed it on," and John damn near giggled at the end, unsure of why that was so funny, but more than likely had to do with the fact that Rodney had passed it on during an impromptu make-out session less than a week prior.

Rodney smiled softly before offering a glass of water to John. "Yes. I suppose I did."

John grinned broadly and kissed Rodney's fingers around the glass.

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	23. Let's All GoSomewhere New

23\. Let's All Go…Somewhere New

Oh, Those Crazy Natives

It was another off-world mission that had gone shockingly bad in the way that few of them did. Cut off from the gate with no idea where Teal'c, Carter or Daniel were, Jack was feeling pretty reckless and crazy when he finally ran into Daniel around a corner of the tunneled ruins they had been researching.

Right up until the natives who owned said-tunnels showed up, screeching in unfamiliar words and syllables that Daniel could only shout something about "violate" and "sacred".

Jack's hands caught Daniel's broad shoulders, his gun already drawn from force of habit. He really hated these tunnel-ruins, hated the lack of fresh air, the way he couldn't really get his bearings down as well as he could top-side.

Daniel looked startled behind the glasses, hand coming up to absently poke Jack's gun away. "Yeah, so," he paused briefly until Jack had re-holstered his pistol, "We kind of trespassed into some pretty sensitive areas."

"No kidding," Jack grumbled, aiming his flashlight down the hall. "Did'ja happen to run into Carter or Teal'c?"

Daniel shook his head regretfully. "Unfortunately, no, but I'm pretty sure I can get us out of the tunnels."

"Pretty sure like you know the seventh chevron or pretty sure like definitely?"

Daniel ducked his head slowly and hesitantly, mouth open and closed for a moment. His face looked pinched when he answered. "Pretty sure like you don't need to strap yourself to a nuke."

Jack rolled his eyes, thought it was clear their shared past on Abydos was hitting close to home. "By all means," he gestured forward.

Daniel muttered to himself as he brushed his hands over the markings on the tunnel walls, glancing in his pocket notepad and grunting in frustration when he had to stop reading to write something down.

Jack took it all in stride, knowing the man had a process. It was when he heard nearby sounds that his back straightened again, shoving Daniel to a wall and cutting his flashlight. "Inbound," he whispered urgently.

Daniel tensed under Jack's arm, and wisely remained silent.

Jack led them blindly through the tunnels, only pointing sharply once at Daniel, who was trying to remain behind to translate the glyphs on the wall with more detail. Once led to a safe distance, Jack sat them both down in the tunnel, passing Daniel a nutrition bar from his vest.

Daniel dug into it, though it was obvious he didn't quite enjoy the field ration. "Still pretty sure I can get us out of here if you let me _work_ ," he said, blue eyes rebellious and defiant.

Jack stretched his legs out alongside Daniel's, chewing his ration thoughtfully. "If I let you _work_ , we might end up _dead_ ," he pointed out deliberately.

Daniel rolled his eyes. "We violated some of their most sacred grounds, which we probably wouldn't have done if you hadn't been pushing me along in the translations."

"Oh, bullshit," Jack retorted, tossing the wrapper from his food to the ground. "I never rush you on new worlds."

"You rush me all the time!" Daniel responded indignantly. "Unless it's something you can fly or shoot, you're not interested. If you'd let me just _do_ my damn _job_ —"

He was interrupted by the solid thwack of an arrow lodging itself into his thigh.

Jack grunted angrily, jerking Daniel to shaky legs as he mercilessly shoved them both into the tunnels, unsure if they were going deeper or heading for the exit. Daniel whined in pain beside of him, holding onto Jack tight and his whole body radiating discomfort.

"You know," Jack groaned, carrying most of Daniel's weight and almost sighing with relief when he saw the light filtering through dust motes while trying to ignore the fact he just wanted to hold the man forever and protect him from _everything_ (because that path only led to madness), "I'm really starting to fucking hate this."

Daniel grunted in pain again as Jack jerked him along. "What's that?" The twinge in his stomach was absolutely because of the pain, and completely _not_ because Jack's arm tightened around his waist.

"Going somewhere new," Jack muttered as they finally, _blessedly_ , reached a way to the surface. The cornflower blue sky was taunting him at this point, and the fresh air shifted briefly over his face. "Every fucking time, Daniel—"

Daniel snorted, starting to sound slurred and groggy from the blood loss around the arrow sticking from his upper thigh. He turned his face up to Jack, glasses askew over his nose. "Worth it though?"

Jack looked up the ladder and back to Daniel just as he heard staff blasts top-side in the distance—Teal'c. By the sound of the P90 fire he heard along with it, Carter too. Daniel was still staring at him, and something by Jack's heart twisted at Daniel's earnest, hopeful face.

Jack responded the only way he could without laying it all out. "You betcha."

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Oh, Those Restless Quarantines

"Do you ever get tired of this shit?"

Janet tilted her head at Sam's blunt question. They sat in the locked-down hallways of the SGC during a system-mandated quarantine that prevented travel between halls for damn near close to seven feet a time. Radio contact was intermittent at best because of the bulkhead doors locking them from the rest of the facility.

"What "shit" are you referring to, Major?" Janet asked with dry amusement.

Sam looked frustrated and restless. Her legs bounced against the concrete, rushing like shooting stars against Janet's legs. "How every time we step through that damn gate, we risk crap like _this_."

Janet seemed to consider for a moment. She was exhausted by this point, having already deal with what seemed like normal measles in the infirmary. The lockdown had happened while she was briefing Sam all about it (and really, getting to talk with Sam was usually the best part of her day), and they now sat, side-by-side, both in BDU's in the hall.

"I don't know…we get to see all sorts of new things, go to new places, meet new people," Janet offered. Sam's head dropped and shook a bit, as if maybe it wasn't quite worth it. "We get to experience new cultures with new views and different takes on things."

Sam looked at her—well, down, because the blonde had a good few inches on her. "Sometimes…" Sam hesitated, eyes squeezed shut for a moment, before opening up with such blue clarity that Janet's heart stuttered. "Sometimes, I'm just tired of the stress. I'm tired of not knowing. I'm tired of going somewhere new."

Janet took her hand, and was surprised to feel the tremble-shake of it. She laced their fingers together in further comfort, not entirely sure if the move was platonic or the result of her own wishes. "Going somewhere new isn't always bad; you're choosing to see it that way."

Sam shrugged her shoulders, as if to consider the different perspective. This time, when she spoke, she stared straight ahead. "I'm tired of not knowing whether I'm gonna bring something back through that gate that hurts someone I care about."

Fingers tightened on Janet's. Impulsively, the doctor leaned her head onto Sam's shoulder. The gesture wasn't rejected. The hand left hers, but only because an arm wound around her shoulders and their remaining hands joined.

"Go somewhere new, they said," Sam muttered in uncharacteristic bitterness.

Janet kissed Sam's fingers, and that seemed to do the trick, because Sam stuttered into silence and, after a too-long pause, leaned her head to Janet's in quiet, comfortable silence.

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Oh, Those Wacky Ancients

"Remind me again, Rodney… _why_ do you keep pissing off the goddamn natives?" John asked angrily, struggling against the ropes that tied his wrists behind his back.

Rodney glared. "Oh, it's a walk in the park for me— _oh_ so fun, you know?" He jabbed his knees into John's in the hallway they sat opposite in. "It's a regular fucking hey-day."

John returned the violent gaze with one of his own. "Yeah, it's a real picnic for me too." He twisted sharply to try to loosen the ropes, but only succeeded in sprawling himself over Rodney's legs. Muffled against Rodney's BDU pants, he asked, "What the fuck did you do this time anyway?"

Rodney gave a frustrated grunt, and pushed up with his knees to put John back to rights. "I didn't do _anything_ ," he squawked with pure indignation. "I activated something when I walked past something Ancient, god knows what really, and they started shoving all sorts of shit towards me to see if it would _glow_ , like I'm some kind of fucking on-switch—"

John twisted his wrists again, but no dice, the rope refused to give. "Sounds familiar," he muttered darkly beneath Rodney's animated retelling of _what_ he had done this time.

"Next thing I know, one of the things they gave me _stunned_ their stupid village elder, or whatever else they fucking call it; I don't fucking know, and you saw the rest."

John did recall angry villagers screeching something about broken trust, about rogue Ancestors, or whatever else they were able to come up with. "I seem to remember stunning someone else when they put the damn thing in my hands."

Rodney seemed to have given up on trying to free himself, remaining still as John still jerked. "If you're lucky."

John stopped moving and settled on Rodney with an intense stare. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Rodney gazed back. "Well, if I only stunned someone, who the hell knows what you were able to do with it."

John groaned, because more than likely, he might have killed someone. "Jesus, just…fuck, just fucking great." The fight seeped out of his shoulders. "I fucking killed someone then."

Rodney shrugged, unwilling to comment further on that particular subject. "Hey," he said instead, "For all you know, Teyla and Ronon are already back to Atlantis, calling for reinforcements. We've still got our transmitters after all."

John shrugged, planting his feet firmly beside Rodney's hips and settling in for rescue. There was no way he was getting his wrists free, and the warmth pressed against his leg was comforting in the near pitch-black darkness of the hallway. Clearly, no working Ancient tech here.

A nudge to his leg brought him back.

"Hey," Rodney said, and his voice sounded strained. "Don't give up here; I'm barely holding it together as it is."

John chuckled darkly. "Who, me? When have I _ever_ given up?"

Rodney didn't respond, and John wondered what look had passed over the physicist's face since he didn't have any vocal cues to go on. Instead, he got to his knees and hobbled until he sat firmly beside of Rodney, shoulders, hips, and thighs pressed together.

"When you had nothing left to lose," Rodney finally said quietly, as if imparting a great secret, and John wasn't sure which memory to jump to—the storm coming over Atlantis, the Iratus bug infection, the siege that had John attempting to suicide-run a nuke into a hive ship, Rodney not being able to even _feed_ himself—

John shook himself away from the memories, jostling himself closer to Rodney, who sharply inhaled. "I've still got you, don't I?" His voice wasn't as easy as he would have liked, and Rodney, goddamn scientist and observer he was, didn't miss the hitch in his tone.

"And I've got you." Rodney leaned and relaxed against the wall, head tilted back and slightly against John's shoulder. "I think we ought to propose something to Elizabeth."

If it hadn't been for the warm press of Rodney's head against his bent shoulders, John might have jerked and shook his head in bewilderment. "And?" he asked, the bemusement clear in his tone.

"We need to stop going somewhere new…this shit is fucking exhausting."

John laughed, leaning his head to Rodney's in a mutually quiet bout of hysterics at the situation. "Kind of our job, Rodney."

Rodney snorted, and let his head rest fully on John's solid, narrow shoulder. "Fuck our job then—no more new."

"Okay, Rodney…okay."

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Oh, This Stupid Warship

Really, Rush can't _quite_ be blamed for the entirety of the situation. Did he want to be out on the edge of the universe on an Ancient warship whose mission held tantalizing probabilities about the origin of the universe?

Well, _yes_ , because what scientist didn't want to know the ultimate question and potentially its answer?

At the same time, Rush was completely blind to the fact that he had dragged a lot of people with him across said-universe, and while he most certainly had no compunction about telling them _where_ , exactly, they could shove their self-righteous anger, there were times that he was more than aware of the fact that at least three-quarters of the crew they had were rightfully pissed at him.

Rush idly ran through equations in his mind as Colonel Young paced restlessly around the cramped hallway. Numbers floated in and out of his vision while Eli attempted to work around the sudden lockdown that—as yet—no one could figure out _why_ it had happened in the first place.

"That kid is brilliant; why can't he unlock the fucking doors?" Young sniped above him.

Rush ignored him in favor of drumming his fingers on the floor, running morse code like it was counting to ten.

If anything, it seemed to agitate Young that Rush ignored him, something Rush always considered amusing. It wasn't as if Rush _meant_ to ignore the Colonel—it was just an added bonus when he was able to. He would almost call it pigtail-pulling if they weren't both men and well over the age where that sort of behavior was acceptable.

Young still paced; Rush still drew equations in the floor since the pocket notepad in his vest was full. That irritated him; he probably wouldn't remember half of what he was thinking of later. He only stopped tracing lithe fingers over the alien metal because he felt the weight of Young standing in front of him, the heaviness of a glare tilted in his direction.

Rush looked up in annoyance. "Yes, Colonel, can I help you in some way?"

"You can't just unlock the damn door?"

"Of course I can; that was the first thing I tried," Rush remarked dryly, and gestured to the door with a restless hand that could still be putting equations to the floor. "Can't you tell?"

Young slumped down beside of him, the close proximity making Rush immediately rear back in surprise. "You don't always have to be such a fucking asshole, you know. We already did this shit, back on that fucking planet."

Rush rolled his eyes out of habit, knowing that the action waved through his body, but Young didn't move. "Perhaps asshole is the default setting."

Young seemed to consider this for a moment, but didn't extract himself from Rush's personal space. "Maybe something else." Young didn't comment further.

Minutes stretched into hours, with them checking in intermittently with Eli, who only frantically responded back that he was _trying_ , cut him a _break_ , this tech was _weird_ , and—well, after that, Rush tuned him out and left the communication up to Young.

The doors remained shut, and Young said nothing when Rush's equations absently jumped against his leg, as if Young had simply accepted that Rush wasn't going to quit and Rush were simply too engrossed in what he was calculating.

"You know," Young muttered, even as Rush was drifting to a reluctant mode of exhaustion-induced sleep, "If you hadn't wanted to go somewhere new so badly, none of this would've happened."

Rush didn't have the energy to snort at the man, much less reply. Instead, he passed out from sheer exhaustion without caring what caught him.

When the doors finally opened and T.J. walked through, she didn't comment on the fact that Rush was bundled against Young's shoulder, or even that Young was letting him. Instead, she woke both of them at the same time, and they both jerked to alertness and wariness.

"Fuck going somewhere new," Young muttered in a voice overladen with tension and strain, and with a stare that even T.J. couldn't quite decipher directed at Rush, stalked out of the hallway.

Rush looked after him, face blank and stoic as always as T.J. gave him a quick look to make sure that dehydration and exhaustion were all that were at work. "Not an easy man to read, is he."

T.J. recognized the sarcasm almost immediately. "Not quite, no," she reply with equal irony.

Rush snorted softly, still only staring in the direction that Young had left in.

T.J. opted wisely to say nothing about the sudden curiosity that had washed briefly over Rush's face, as if he had solved a new puzzle. She snapped her med-kit shut quietly as Rush waved her off—he was fine, yes, he'd check in later—and said nothing about the new direction Rush had headed off in that looked suspiciously like he was going after Young, but in a roundabout way.

She snorted—she knew better than call which way the wind was blowing, but if she were a betting woman (and Eli and Scott knew better than that from their weekly poker games that she was, but often _won_ ), she would bet that Rush was headed after Young.

Wouldn't that _really_ be somewhere new?

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	24. Let's All Discover

24\. Let's All Discover

Author's Note: This prompt was optional, but after getting through the 23 prompts (finally and for the first damn time in the last 20 years I've been writing), there was one AU episode of Atlantis that I've always wanted to see and never did, despite all of the fanfic I've read, and I decided hey, use the optional prompt to make this AU happen.

That being said, this is an AU of The Shrine (s5e6), and while I know that a lot of fics have been attached to this particular episode (hell, some of my own), I always thought it would be interesting to see if the roles had been reversed, if it had been John instead of Rodney.

Thanks to LegacySoulReaver for beta, ideas, questions, and insights I hadn't thought of before!

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The blonde lady adjusted the camera in front of him. "So we're just going to start easy today." She finished fidgeting with it and restlessly dropped her hands. "What's your name?"

He snorted. "Seriously? I'm not that far gone."

"Okay…what branch of service are you in?"

Again, the derisive sound of being placated blurted from his nose. "Do I really need to do this?" he edged out, clearly irritated.

The blonde—god, what the hell was her name…Kelsey? Jess? Something with a J or a K, and if he were closer to being in his right mind, he might wonder why J and K were so closely associated since their only other characteristics were consonants and the fact they followed each other in the alphabet. The blonde gestured for someone.

In her place came Rodney.

John smiled easily enough, crossing his arms even as he realized that things were falling away. "Rodney," he greeted.

Rodney looked relieved. "So…Keller told me you weren't being very forthcoming."

 _Keller, that was her fucking name!_ "Let's just say I didn't feel the need to recite my name, rank, and military branch because she thinks something's wrong with me."

Rodney looked a bit pinched. "We _know_ something's wrong; we're only filming this so we can track how quickly. We've done this for the last five days."

John was sure the panic shot through his heart, and hoped it didn't show on his face. "Okay," he drew out lazily, "Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard, US Air Force. I fly planes and I'm the military commander of Atlantis in the Pegasus galaxy, probably because of the super-gene I have, known as—" He stopped for a moment, the word escaping him all together, and the panic notched tighter around his throat.

"As?" Rodney prompted patiently.

John waved distractedly. "The folks who built this place—I have…" He frowned, green eyes troubled with concentration. "Something." He snapped his fingers. "Their DNA!"

Rodney nodded. "That's right. Do you remember my name?"

John looked at him as if he were stupid. "Of course; you're Rodney."

"And the doctor?"

He looked at the blonde woman standing just outside of hearing range. She waved at him, as if she knew him, but couldn't readily recall her name. "Jessie?" he guessed, because a J-name sounded right.

Rodney looked disappointed for a brief moment before faking a smile.

"That's not her name, is it," John asked, and it wasn't a question.

"No," Rodney responded, "It's not. You knew it yesterday."

John wanted to ask further, but then Rodney started asking about planes, and yeah, John could do that—he liked the sky.

It was the same cerulean blue as Rodney's eyes.

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John stared at the blonde doctor uncomprehendingly. "Where's Rodney?" Only because Rodney brought back the pieces he knew he had lost, because if Rodney was there, things might be okay, things be normal, it meant maybe he could see the _sky_ —

The blonde doctor smiled kindly at him, but he could read the pain. "He's around; he said he'd come back soon, remember?"

Poor choice of words, John thought—he didn't remember. He banged his wrist restlessly against the railing on the bed. "But he's supposed to be here; he _said_ he would be."

The blonde woman—Jackie, maybe?—still gave him the same patient, kind smile that was beginning to grate on his nerves. "I'll call him, okay?"

John rolled his eyes, and drifted for a bit until he felt someone nudge his hand. He jerked to alertness, and saw the sky on Rodney's face, the man sitting by his bed. "Hey, Rodney," he said, pleased that Rodney was back.

"Hey yourself," Rodney said, and the upward slant of his mouth was only ruined by the fact that the smile didn't reach his eyes.

John frowned, staring at his callused hands. "I'm pretty bad off, aren't I?" he asked, feeling the sluggish pull of his brain.

Rodney sighed. "Yeah, but Jennifer's working on it."

John glared. "I think she wants you all to herself; she doesn't let you sit with me."

"That's not—" Rodney stopped. "That's not how it is, come on."

But John is on a different page all together now, his face alighting to the window. "I can fly then…would you let me fly?" he asked hopefully.

"You know we can't," Rodney responded regretfully.

"But…" John stopped, because he wasn't sure the words would be there, wasn't sure if the words had ever been there, and he settled for staring into Rodney's eyes—blue, blue, _blue_ —until it made him hurt. "Rodney, _please_."

Rodney sighed. "I want to; I swear…but you're grounded."

John felt completely justified in turning away from Rodney at that point, forcing himself to slip back into the fuzzy area of not knowing anything but the cornflower-shade of sky he can still see in his mind. He jammed his hands beneath his head in an old-childhood habit, struggling to will sleep to come.

Rodney let out a breath of air behind him, the sadness evident as well as the attempt to hide the emotion. "What's your rank?"

John snorted into the pillow. "Major John Sheppard of course," he replied derisively, and he could practically feel Rodney tense up.

"Yeah," Rodney responded. "That's not right," he said honestly.

John steadfastly stared at the empty bed next to him, hands stuck restlessly beneath his sweaty face. "No. It's not." He buried his face into the pillow. "Just…just fucking _go_."

Rodney sighed heavily before John heard the footsteps of someone leaving.

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John didn't run the halls; he stuck to dark corners and stealthily crawled along the walls of an all-too-willing Atlantis until he was forcing Rodney's door open. He knelt by Rodney's bed, struggling to pull the words he needed to mind, right up until he leaned his head to Rodney's bed in the sheer weariness of trying to find what he needed.

Rodney awoke beside of him. "John?" he asked groggily.

John looked up quietly. "Show me the sky?" he asked.

"What are you—" Rodney cut off at the broken look thrown his way. "Yes, yes, yes…" He got John up to his feet, made sure he could do what was needed, and the next thing John knew, they were in a puddle jumper, flying through the thin layers of New Lantea's atmosphere.

"My name is John," he said fiercely, his hands itching to pilot but unable to remember the movements required.

"Yes," Rodney responded quietly.

"I killed him…Sumner."

Rodney nodded again. "You didn't know that earlier," he responded honestly.

John _liked_ Rodney's honesty—at least he knew where he stood. "I've killed others…who…there were _others_ ; I've killed people. Who were they?"

"I don't know—that's in your personnel record, and I never hacked it."

Again, honesty was something John could deal with. He stared out of the front window, the sky clearing to a harsh blue that reminded him of Rodney's eyes. "I used to _fly_."

"Yes."

John could feel the strangling sensation around his throat and brain, stripping him of the ability to tell Rodney that the sky was there, in Rodney's eyes, that Atlantis was in his hands, that they were _each other_ , and nobody seemed to notice, and they could _do this_ …

"John?" Rodney asked, and John came back a little, seeing the stars.

John didn't respond right away, not sure if he was hearing Rodney or actually with him.

"Sheppard, don't you know me?"

Oh, Sheppard—that was his last name, and he turned his face back to Rodney. Blue eyes so clear it fucking _hurt_ are what greet him, and he collapsed back into sleep because it was easier than seeing the desperate look of panic on Rodney's face.

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"My name is John," he said, and felt proud and stupid at the same time. "Where's Rodney?"

"He's coming," a blonde woman assured him, but it wasn't much reassurance at all.

"I used to _fly_ ," John said, and the woman smiled at him in a way he could only feel as patronizing.

"You will again," she said, but the lack of confidence in her voice made him think otherwise.

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It was late when he found himself begging the door open; he was breathless and panicked, knowing that parts of him were slipping off, bit by bit, not unlike a snake sloughing its skin. He shook Rodney violently, fingers grappling at the familiar shoulders.

"Christ, what, I'm awake!" Rodney snapped.

John immediately drew back, backing away from the bed like a wounded child. "I'm sorry, I didn't—" He cut off.

Rodney's face softened, and he rubbed his face. "I didn't know it was you—what's wrong?"

John made a strangled sound in his throat, something that wasn't quite pain but wasn't quite held back either. "My name is _John_ ," and he _knows_ that he wasn't making much sense.

Rodney pulled him back to the bed though, curling around him.

John sighed, his fingers pulling at the seams of the sheet. "The horizon is shot…the sky is _gone_ …"

"I know," Rodney responded, fingers stroking a line down John's upper arms.

John moved restlessly, twisted until he was facing Rodney, and those too-blue eyes were back, and the light was fainter in the back of his brain, that Rodney's eyes _meant_ something. "I can't—" John stopped, and then "I can't _do_ —" and then nothing, and then "Your _eyes_ ; they're like the sky-  
" A longer pause before John started up again, "It's like the sky; it's so blue that it fucking _hurts_ —"

Then the alertness was gone from John's eyes, and John simply curled against Rodney's solid frame.

Rodney sighed above him, stroking soothing fingers up and down John's back. "Tell me what to do, John."

John relished hearing someone call him _John_ , and not the other-name that he couldn't remember right now. He looked up quietly at Rodney, whose eyes are still too blue and too vivid, and on a clear day, he could see forever into those eyes—

"Show me," John said, and then realized he needed to be more specific, because Rodney looked confused. "Show me the stars."

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John was convinced that the only skies and stars worth looking at were in Rodney's eyes.

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End file.
